


The Causative Agent

by Misdemeanor1331



Series: By Wand and Bone [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Hermione Granger, F/M, Forced Partnership, Healer Draco Malfoy, Holidays, Investigations, Medical Mystery, Medicine, Mystery, Partnership, Poisoning, Police Procedural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27704893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been poisoned, Hermione Granger has been spared, and Draco Malfoy is the only person who can help. Aurors don’t typically partner with Healers, but this case is far from routine, and their combined expertise is exactly what’s needed to determine the causative agent and catch the attempted killer.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: By Wand and Bone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2105205
Comments: 86
Kudos: 267
Collections: D/Hr Advent 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, dormiensa, for taking a break from her retirement to provide her feedback, insight, and corrections. Thanks as well to Musyc for running this gorgeous fest and to everyone who nominated me this year. I know it was a close one, and I’m honored to have snuck through. My prompts were _mistletoe_ (which I’ve wanted for _ages_ ) and _cold_.
> 
> This fic takes place in the same universe as _Standard of Care_ and can be read either as a sequel or a standalone piece. It’s my attempt at a snappy medical drama/police procedural: an unholy union of “House” and “Law and Order.” I hope you like it!
> 
> Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Chapter 1**

The St. Mungo’s Spell Damage Ward was typically quiet. Due to the afflictions of its residents and the occasionally hazardous consequences of unanticipated excitement, this was the ideal. But as Hermione Granger steered Ron Weasley’s wheelchair from his long-term care room, the corridor rang with applause.

Having been injured on an Auror field assignment in late November, Ron had been a patient of the fourth floor for over a month and had clearly endeared himself to his care team. Nursing staff and Junior Healers lined the hall, wishing him well and sharing inside jokes. But one member of his care team was conspicuously absent: his primary Healer. 

Hermione leaned down, dodging Ron’s waving hand to ask her question, careful to keep it professional. “Where’s Healer Malfoy?” 

“Dunno,” Ron said. “Busy, I suppose. He signed my release papers this morning.” 

“Strange, though, that he didn’t come to see you off.” 

Ron shrugged. “He might’ve saved my life, but I still don’t like the git. Reckon the feeling’s mutual.” 

Hermione frowned. Draco had been the Healer-on-Hand when she’d brought Ron into the ward, unconscious and cold. He’d led the team that had stabilized and monitored her friend in that first uncertain week. And instead of transferring the case to a different Healer once it became clear that Ron would recover, Draco had chosen to keep it. He’d chosen to work with a man—a family—that he openly disliked. 

Logically, Hermione knew that Draco’s personal feelings held little sway over the development and execution of Ron’s treatment plan. She’d learned early on about the hospital’s expectations for its Healers and had experienced first-hand the rigorous standards to which Draco held himself. His role in Ron’s recovery wasn’t a personal favor; it was his job. A duty he was bound by the Hippocratic Oath to perform. But part of her had hoped that there’d been more to Draco’s decision than pure professionalism. 

Part of her had hoped that she’d factored into the equation. 

Hermione’s hands tightened on the grips of Ron’s wheelchair. It was a selfish hope. 

Yes, she and Draco had gotten to know one another over the previous year. 

Yes, they had forged a bond of mutual respect in that time. 

And _yes_ , they had kissed a week ago, a physical acknowledgement of the emotional distance they’d crossed to find one another. 

But one kiss wasn’t a herald of paradigm-shifting change. Especially considering that she hadn’t seen him since. 

It hadn’t felt intentional. Not at first. She’d had to work, after all, and her responsibilities to the Auror Office limited her visits to her lunch hour and weekends. And Ron wasn’t Draco’s only patient. He had rounds to perform, charts to complete, and research to oversee. 

But as the week passed with no word, Hermione began to wonder if she’d moved too quickly. Perhaps she’d scared him off. Perhaps the attraction was one-sided. It hadn’t felt that way; he’d kissed her back, and thoroughly, at that. But perhaps he regretted it now that he’d had time to think. 

Ron gave the fourth floor a final wave before the lift doors closed. He lowered his hand with a sigh. 

“Thanks for this,” he said, craning his neck to look at her. “Surprised Harry isn’t here, too, though. Everything okay with him?” 

“Busy at work,” Hermione replied, fighting a smile. It wasn’t technically a lie. Harry was arranging Ron’s return to work celebration. He was on restricted duty until given the proper clearance by St. Mungo’s and Ministry management, of course, but it was a return nonetheless. 

Perhaps sensing the deception, Ron’s brow furrowed. “We’re one week into the new year. What could’ve happened?” 

She let the question hang unanswered as the lift doors opened with a polite _ding_. The hospital’s lobby was more active than normal, packed with patients in various states of distress and complicated further by the maintenance staff, who had decided that the first week of January was indeed the proper time to remove the holiday décor. A grey-robed orderly took the wheelchair at the door, and Ron, flanked closely by Hermione, left the hospital under his own power. 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as his lungs filled with frigid, unfiltered air. 

“It feels good to be out,” he admitted quietly. “I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed again. Eat my own food. See Lavender…” 

Hermione looped her arm into his and walked him slowly to the nearby Apparition point. “We’re all happy you’re okay,” she said. “And I, at least, wouldn’t mind a few, quiet weeks to readjust.” 

She pulled him Side-Along to the Ministry’s employee entrance. Ron staggered as he landed, unsteady on weaker-than-usual legs, and caught himself against the building’s brick wall. 

Hermione braced his arms and searched his face. “Are you okay?” 

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said, somewhat breathless. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” 

“ _Ron_.” 

His blue eyes narrowed, the tips of his ears turning red from embarrassment or cold. “You sound like a bloody Healer,” he groused. “Dizzy, breathless. Vision blacked out for a second there.” 

Concern spiked through her. “Do you need me to call Healer Malfoy?” 

“No.” Ron pushed himself from the wall. “No, I’m fine. Just needed a minute.” 

But Hermione noted the time anyway. She would write Draco later, just to double check. Or, better yet, invite him to talk over lunch. Maybe she could get some answers of her own in the process. 

Their route to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement occurred in fits and starts. Several of Ron’s friends from other departments stopped to shake his hand and wish him well, seemingly oblivious to Hermione’s thinly veiled attempts to keep them moving. While she shared her colleagues’ excitement to have Ron back, she hated being late, and they were already tardy by five minutes. 

The lift doors to Level 2 clanged open, and they were greeted by the department’s unique blend of smells: freshly-brewed tea, tingling ozone, and acrid black powder. But something was wrong. The air around them felt stiff and heavy with dread, unusually stagnant for such an active workspace. And the entire floor was quiet. 

Too quiet.

“Where is everyone?” Ron whispered. 

“I don’t know. Harry was supposed to meet us here.” 

They’d been planning it for a week. Harry would meet them in the lift lobby and escort Ron through a column of cheering MLE personnel. The entire department would then gather in the largest conference room and enjoy a lunch catered by the Ministry canteen. Gawain Robards, the department Head, had approved a full hour of celebration before everyone had to return to work. While Level 2 employees suffered from an uneven work-life balance, forgoing a celebration was unprecedented. 

Hermione drew her wand and stepped from the lift, positioning herself before Ron. 

“Wait here.” 

She managed two steps into the lobby before he followed her, but there was no point in scolding him. By then, she’d reached the entrance to the office proper, and her blood had turned to ice. 

Bodies littered the cubicle area, slumped over desks, hanging across chairs, and lying limp along the floor. 

Not one of them moved.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Hermione dashed toward the closest victim, an officer named Bedelia Lax. She bent low then felt her ears pop: the pressure differential from a Bubble-Head Charm. She looked back at Ron. He sagged against the wall, exhausted by the spell.

“The whole department’s out,” he said. “Might be gas.” 

“Good thinking.” She pressed her fingers more firmly into Lax’s neck. 

“Is she…” 

“Alive, I think,” Hermione said. She wasn’t a Healer but thought she knew enough to find a pulse. “We need to move quickly.” 

“Omega Protocol?” Ron asked. 

Hermione nodded. “Secure the Minister and his staff, then send a Patronus to Magical Maintenance. Have them check the ventilation system. Contact Building Security next. We need Level 2 locked down.” 

“What about you?” 

“I’m going to sweep the office, cast as many Bubble-Heads as I can, and call St. Mungo’s.” 

“Harry…” 

They shared a loaded look. Terror curled in Hermione’s gut. “I’ll get to him,” she said, her voice tight. 

Ron nodded. “What do I tell the Minister?” 

Hermione paused. Kingsley Shacklebolt wasn’t an aloof politician. He was practical and results-oriented. He would want the details, and they didn’t have any to give. 

“Tell him I’m on it.” 

In three steps, Ron was on her, wrapping her in a fierce hug. “Be careful,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She sank into the feeling, enjoying the comfort that she knew would be hard to find over the next few days.

“You too.” She pushed him away, her throat thick with grief. She hadn’t expected to have to leave him so soon. 

But reality rarely concerned itself with something as trivial as human desire. 

The lift doors slammed shut, and Hermione was already halfway down the first row, casting Bubble-Head Charms on everyone she passed. Her sweep was methodical: an efficient pass up and down the rows of cubicles, a check in every loo and conference room, until she reached the far end of the department, where the Aurors and Level 2 management sat. 

Robards was limp, reclined at his desk as if sleeping. Harry, sitting opposite, was slumped over the arm of his chair. She threw a charm over her boss and knelt next to Harry. His chest moved, a subtle rise and fall that sent relief flooding through her. He couldn’t have survived so much only to die now. 

Once he was charmed, Hermione hurled a handful of Floo Powder into Robards’ fireplace. “Draco Malfoy’s office!” she shouted before shoving her face into the grate. 

Her vision cleared just in time to see him jump. 

Draco Malfoy spun in his chair, a Granny Smith apple clutched in one hand, a large bite occupying his cheek. 

He choked, surprised. But Hermione didn’t give him time to chew and swallow, or herself enough time to fully appreciate seeing him. 

“There’s an emergency at the Ministry,” she said. “We need a team. Approximately 50 victims. Unconscious, but most are breathing, I think. I applied Bubble-Head Charms as triage. It might be gas, I don’t—” 

“ _Granger_.” Draco fell to his knees before the fireplace, the apple rolling from his hand and across the floor, forgotten. His tone demanded attention. Hermione’s jaw snapped closed, and she stared at him, rapt, awaiting his question. 

“Are you okay?” 

She blinked once, surprised. “I’m fine.” 

The tension in his shoulders eased a measure. “When did this happen?” 

“I don’t know exactly. Ron and I arrived at the Ministry around noon, and the department had already been… They were already…” 

“Did you touch anything?” 

“No. I just cast the charms.” 

Draco looked at the clock over his shoulder. “Quarter past noon. Where can I come in?” 

“This address,” she answered. “Gawain Robards’ office is the only open hearth on the floor.” 

“Ten minutes,” he said. “I’ll be bringing an advance team through the Floo. Additional support will need direct access through the Ministry’s main entrance. Can you arrange that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. We’ll set up the ward on site.” 

Hermione flinched at the suggestion. “You can’t.” 

Draco’s eyes turned flinty. “What?” 

“It’s an active crime scene. I need to investigate first.” 

He shook his head. “No. It’s too many people to move to St. Mungo’s. We need to establish criticality, then arrange transport for those who need additional care.” 

“But—”

“This is how it’s going to be,” he snapped, stunning her into silence. “We’ve already wasted too much time. If you want to investigate, then you have nine minutes to do so. After that, the scene is mine. Understood?” 

She swallowed, nodded. “I understand.” 

“Good.” He backed away from the Floo. “See you soon.”

* * *

After recasting the Bubble-Head Charm, Hermione left the Floo in Robards’ office open and stepped into the common cubicle area. She tried to ignore the spread of bodies around her. She couldn’t help them anymore. 

But she could find the person responsible. 

She took a moment to steady herself. To focus. 

Theory one: gas. Something potent enough to affect the entire department, but easy to contain; she hadn’t heard of any other floors going down. Her eyes lifted to the ceiling. The dispersal method had to be through the output ducts. With a wave of her wand, she brought down the metal air diverters. She jogged the rows, examined each set of metal fins, but found no evidence of foul play. No pressurized canisters or slow-release tanks. Just dust. 

She surveyed the office with narrowed eyes. The cause needed to be something widespread, a common touchpoint accessed by everyone. Her eyes snagged on the supply cabinet. Bad ink. A batch of laced quills. Cursed parchment. Hermione worked through the scenarios as she levitated sundry items into evidence bags. She labelled and sealed them, set them on her desk for safe keeping, and checked her watch. 

Three minutes left before St. Mungo’s trashed her scene. Enough time for one more theory. 

The kitchenette. 

Her stomach sank. Level 2 was fueled both by an enduring desire for justice and copious amounts of caffeine. The teapot—a nicked, baby blue behemoth that held full a gallon of brew—sat on the counter. Steam curled from its spout courtesy of a routine warming charm. She bagged the biscuit tin, the plate of day-old pastries, the cutlery, the honey, and the cream, but only because she had to. 

The teapot and its contents were the causative agent. 

She knew it. 

By the time Hermione reached her desk with the last of the evidence, the St. Mungo’s team had arrived. Draco had donned his lime green Healer’s robe and met her halfway to Robards’ office. He looked serious, stressed. She knew the feeling. 

“Evidence,” she said, gesturing to her cluttered desk. 

“Pham!” A Junior Healer appeared at Draco’s elbow, her long hair tied back in a high ponytail. “Take all of this back to St. Mungo’s.” 

“Tell them to start with the tea,” Hermione said. 

Pham looked to Draco. He nodded, and the Junior Healer set to her task. “Nagle, O’Callaghan, Vayeda, and Disarro, take the far corners.” He gestured across the office. Three Junior Healers in shamrock green followed one of Draco’s peers in lime, leaving them alone. 

“Draco…” She reached a hand toward him, not entirely sure what she was looking for. Comfort, maybe. A sense that everything was going to be okay. 

Draco gave her something better: purpose. 

“I need another pair of hands,” he said. 

She released a shaky breath. “Okay.” 

“Where should we start?” he asked. 

“With Harry,” she replied, pointing him back toward Robards’ office. “We’ll start with Harry.”

* * *

The day passed in a blur. Magical Maintenance confirmed that the ventilation hadn’t been tampered with, which provided relief from the discomfort of the Bubble-Head Charm. Level 2 was cordoned off, and the Atrium turned into a gathering point for a swarm of worried relatives and sympathetic reporters. Ron had sent a Patronus, confirming Kingsley’s safety and letting her know that he had taken point on the Minister’s protection detail. 

About an hour after Draco’s advance team had arrived, additional St. Mungo’s support spilled from the reactivated lift. In a matter of thirty minutes, they had transformed Level 2’s cubicle area into a field hospital. Desks had been extended to support supine bodies and were separated not by chest-high walls, but curtained dividers. 

The symptoms were all the same: dangerously low heart rates, weak heartbeats, and shallow breathing. Those who needed supplementary oxygen were given it. The initial chaos of patient triage had quieted once everyone had been stabilized. Now, the field hospital was filled with a chorus of high-pitched pings, courtesy of the arm cuffs which were used to monitor patient vitals. 

Hermione stripped off her gloves and leaned against her desk. It was one of the few that had remained empty and had therefore been chosen as the administrative center of the newly created ward. A headache bloomed behind her eyes. 

“No fatalities,” Draco said. Their arms brushed as he took a seat beside her. 

“How is that possible?” Everyone in the office had been affected, some worse than others, but none so severely that they had died. The odds felt astronomical. 

Or intentional. 

“Dose makes the poison,” Draco muttered. 

Hermione sent him a sideways look. “You think that’s what this was?” 

He mirrored her look. “You don’t? You told Pham to look at the tea first. I assume you had a reason to do so.” 

“A hunch,” she clarified. “We don’t have any evidence yet.” 

“Well, an ingested poison certainly fits,” Draco said with a sigh. “The kettle would have acted as the common delivery mechanism, and metabolic differences explain why some people reacted worse than others. The lab will have to confirm it.” 

“When can we expect that?” 

He glanced at the clock across the office. It was nearing eight p.m. Despite the late hour, bright sunlight streamed through the charmed windows, a request honored by Magical Maintenance to assist the Healers with their job. “Tomorrow morning, probably.” 

“What do we do until then?” 

“Continue monitoring. Vitals are steady, but not improving.” 

“You’re going to keep them here?” 

“Easier to fashion parchment into pillows than transport everyone to St. Mungo’s without the Muggles noticing.” 

Hermione frowned. “Where will you be?” 

He looked at her, brow drawn. “With them,” he answered, as if it were obvious. “With you.” 

Her heart thumped at the addition, and her fingers tightened on the edge of her desk. She stared at her shoes.

“About last week…” 

Draco shifted. Their arms brushed again. “Granger…” 

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intention.” 

She flinched as his hand closed over hers. “That’s not what you did.” 

“You were avoiding me.” Her eyes flicked to his. She waited for the denial, but it never came. 

“The threat of loss does strange things to people—prompts irrational behavior, impulsive decisions, risk taking.” He looked down at her, and his voice dropped an octave. “I don’t want to be an impulsive decision to you, Hermione. I want you to be sure.” 

Hermione dropped her eyes again and nodded, mouth dry. 

“Until then,” he said, removing his hand from hers, “I’m content to wait.”

And perhaps that was best. This investigation had to be her first and only priority. She couldn’t afford a distraction, especially one as fascinating as Draco. 

“I need to find who did this,” she muttered. 

“We need to find them,” Draco corrected. “Aurors aren’t supposed to work alone.” 

She looked back up at him. “How do you know that?”

“Weasley. I was present for his Ministry statement in case he shared anything relevant to his care plan. He didn’t, but he did explain MLE procedures. I understand that you and he were the only Aurors not at the Ministry or on field assignment today. Normally, you’d be partnering with him, except that he’s securing Shacklebolt and his cabinet. Ergo…” He spread his hands wide. 

“You’re not trained.” 

Draco’s expression flickered. “Neither were you, but sometimes we need to work with what we have, not what we want.” 

The barb stung. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“Do you want my help?” 

She met his eyes. “Yes.” 

“Then go home. You’ve been through hell today, and you’ll need to be fresh for tomorrow.” 

“What about you?” 

Draco sighed. The line of his shoulders rounded as he scanned the ward, the first hint of exhaustion he’d shown all day. “My work’s not done quite yet.”


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione arrived at the Ministry before sunrise. The crowds of concerned family had been sent home late last night, and the Atrium felt heavy with the eerie silence of a place unaccustomed to quiet. Her footsteps echoed across the marble, stuttering in surprise when the Floo across from her activated. 

Draco stepped from the hearth. He held a tray with two to-go cups in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. She never would have guessed that he’d spent half the night walking the ward. He looked professional and polished in a crisp white Oxford and navy slacks. His blond hair had been swept to one side, a darker shade of platinum still wet from his shower. 

He cleared his throat, the noise breaking Hermione’s stare. 

“Morning,” she said, voice higher than normal. 

“Morning.” He crossed the lobby and held out the tray. “I don’t know how you take your tea.”

She took a cup. “With honey.” 

“It’s in with the croissants. Here.” They paused at one of the high top tables in the Atrium, just outside the Ministry’s own café, which was currently closed. They each took a pastry, doctored their tea, and then headed toward the lift.

“How late did you stay last night?” 

“Late enough.” 

“Any changes?” 

“No. Everyone was still stable when I left.” 

They swayed with the lift and stepped into the Level 2 lobby. Two MLE officers stood guard: Jillian Chambers, who had been recalled from an assignment in Wales, and Keith Wengle, pulled in early from family leave. Hermione nodded a greeting to both, Draco following close behind. 

The moment they entered the office-turned-ward, Draco’s demeanor shifted. His shoulders straightened and his jaw set as he donned, at least in spirit, his Healer’s mantle. 

“Nagle, status.” 

A Junior Healer sprang from his seat at Hermione’s desk. “No changes overnight. Vitals are steady, maybe improving for a few patients. No one’s awake yet. And this just came through for you.” 

He held out a memo. The stiff parchment had been folded over twice, sealed with green wax, and stamped with St. Mungo’s wand-and-bone seal. Draco slid a finger beneath the seal, scanned the letter, and lifted wide eyes to Hermione. 

“Lab results are back,” he said. “We need to get to the hospital.”

* * *

“What do you have for us, Melanie?” 

Draco addressed a young woman in a white lab coat whose hair was as blue as her eyes. She handed over a folder filled with evenly cut parchment. 

“The kettle,” she said. “It was poisoned.” 

Draco opened the folder and began to read. 

“With what?” Hermione asked. 

“Mistletoe…” Draco muttered. 

“ _Viscum album_ , or European mistletoe,” Melanie clarified. Draco, absorbed in the file, missed her quelling glare. “Viscotoxins contained in the plant’s berries and leaves can cause bradycardia and negative inotropic effects.”

“Slow and weak heartbeats,” Draco translated with a sideways glance, “which could easily render people unconscious. This aligns with what we’ve seen at the Ministry. But it’s been almost eighteen hours. Why haven’t the effects worn off?” 

Melanie plucked a glass bottle from her lab bench. “The tea was specially blended. Most of it was mistletoe leaves and berries, but it also contained synthetic capsules. A few were still intact. They contained concentrated viscotoxin.” 

Hermione held the bottle up to the light. Its dried contents looked unremarkable, like anything one would see in a blended tea: dark pieces of greenery, shreds of bright peel, small rounds of dried berries. She only noticed the unnatural additive when the light hit it properly. The capsules were about the size of fennel seeds, but two shades greener and with a slight, oily sheen. 

“Those capsules are a delayed release mechanism,” Melanie continued. “They release their contents slowly over time.” 

“How long?” Draco asked, sharp at the promise of medically relevant information.

“Not sure. Twelve to twenty-four hours, maybe?” 

“This is advanced technology,” Draco said, taking the bottle from Hermione and performing his own examination. “Our poisoner knew what he was doing.” 

“Yes, he did,” Melanie confirmed. “There’s Valerian root in the blend, too. That’s the same ingredient that gives common sleeping draughts and the Draught of Living Death their long-lasting effects.” 

“But they’ll wake up, won’t they?” Hermione looked between Draco and Melanie, who exchanged a loaded glance.

Melanie answered first, hesitant. “I think so. The poisoner walked a fine line. The dose was high enough to incapacitate everyone who took it, but remained just below lethality. I’ve rarely seen such precise chemistry.” 

Weighted silence followed, enduring even as Draco and Hermione left the lab and headed back toward his office. Hermione barely noticed. Her mind spun, making connections, finding an investigatory path and following it to the next logical juncture. 

“Granger?” Draco’s hand on her shoulder pulled Hermione from her fugue. “Care to let me in? What are you thinking?” 

Where to start? She had the beginnings of a theory, but needed to lay it out, give it the space to breathe and speak to her before she drew any conclusions.

She looked up at him. “I’m thinking we need a corkboard.”

* * *

Hermione paced the Ministry conference room, two dozen scraps of parchment trailing her like a flock of charmed sparrows. 

“It starts with the kettle.” A piece of parchment separated from the flock and pinned itself to the corkboard’s center, the word _Kettle_ written in bold, black letters. “A kettle poisoned on the morning of Monday, January 5, 2004. A kettle poisoned with mistletoe tea that had been laced with Valerian root and further augmented by the addition of concentrated, delayed release capsules.” 

With each new fact, another piece of parchment joined the first, creating a neat list. 

“Valerian root,” she continued. “A common ingredient for common brews. Not revealing when taken alone, but when paired with the presence of the capsules, might tell us something about the poisoner.” 

“About the manufacturer,” Draco clarified. Hermione paused in her pacing. “The person who did the poisoning and the person who created the poison aren’t necessarily the same.” 

Three more pieces of parchment fluttered to the board, the text _Conspiracy?_ written in blue ink. It settled in the board’s upper right corner, the first of their theories. In green, finding a home in the bottom right corner, were _Suspect 1: Poisoner_ and _Suspect 2: Manufacturer_. 

“The poisoner could be anyone who had access to Level 2.” 

“Does the Ministry keep a record?” 

“Not for Level 2. Only the Minister’s floor and Level 9 are access controlled. Anyone who works in the building could have brewed the tea.” 

“And our potential witnesses are still unconscious,” Draco grumbled. “Until one of them wakes up and gives a statement, we may be at a dead end when it comes to the poisoner. The manufacturer, however…” Draco leaned forward and looked up at Hermione. “We’re looking for someone who knows Potions. Someone who knows the chemistry _and_ has the technology to create something as unique as a delayed release capsule.” 

“That’s a significantly smaller suspect pool,” Hermione agreed. “Delayed release capsules… Wasn’t there a potion recently? Shite, I heard an advertisement for it on the wireless. A treatment for depression. What was it called?”

Draco let out a long sigh. He sat back in his chair and began counting them off. “There’s Welfixor, Ablizone, Loftrin, Antre—” 

Hermione snapped her fingers. “Yes! Antre! Doesn’t that—”

But Draco was two steps ahead of her, rising from his chair and grabbing his winter cloak. “D-caps, a new development from Boniface Pharmaceuticals.” 

“Proprietary?” she asked, following him out the door. 

“If not, they’ll certainly know their competition. They’ll be able to point us in the right direction, at least.” 

“Think you can get us in?” she asked, eyeing his Healer’s robe, which hung on a peg near her desk. 

“Me?” He shot her a grin that made her stomach flip. “You’re the one with the badge.”

* * *

Hermione handed her identification to the receptionist at Boniface Pharmaceuticals with a tense smile. 

“I’m with the Auror Office. We need to speak with Zurie Afaire.” 

The receptionist, who had initially been struck by the appearance of a war heroine at her desk, turned condescending. Her lips pursed in a smile of faux sympathy.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Ms. Afaire is in meetings all day.” 

“Tell her to cancel.” 

“Ms. Afaire is the president of Boniface Pharmaceuticals. She can’t just _cancel_ —”

“Tell her to cancel, or I’ll be back with a Wizengamot warrant so extensive that your production will fall _weeks_ behind.” 

The receptionist, whose badge read _Barb Rush_ , popped to her feet. “Wait here, please,” she said and hurried away. 

Beside her, Draco released a slow breath. “Well done, Granger. That was…” 

Hermione arched a brow at him, enjoying the twin spots of color on his usually pale cheeks. 

“Impressed, Malfoy?” 

His throat worked in a swallow. He nodded, and Hermione felt satisfaction bloom in her chest. He looked more than just impressed; he looked just as gobsmacked as Barb. 

The receptionist returned a few minutes later, looking rather green. 

“She’ll see you now. Right this way, please.”

* * *

Zurie Afaire sat behind a large mahogany desk. She was the picture of calm: folded hands, lifted chin, gold jewelry dripping from her ears, neck, and wrists. Hermione got the impression that this woman had fought for every shred of respect she commanded. She wouldn’t be easily cowed. 

“Hermione Granger.” Afaire rose and extended her hand, a faint French lilt to her voice. “And your companion is…” 

“Draco Malfoy.” Draco offered his hand. Afaire’s neutral expression cracked, curling with something like disgust. 

“The Death Eater?” 

Draco’s expression shuttered. He dropped his hand, and Hermione no longer felt bound by the societal expectation of good manners. This woman had information they needed, and the Minister himself had given her _carte blanche_ to retrieve it. 

“You’ve heard about the recent attack on the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Hermione said. At this point, few people hadn’t. Afaire nodded. “We think that someone at Boniface might be connected to the crime.” 

Afaire’s shoulders stiffed. “ _What_? Why? No,” she said, cutting the air with a gesture. “No, it’s impossible. I assure you, none of my employees—”

“What can you tell us about D-caps?” Draco asked. For having just been insulted and snubbed, he sounded surprisingly calm. 

Afaire’s eyes shifted to Draco. She fell into the sales pitch naturally. “D-caps, or delayed capsules, are Boniface’s latest technology, set to completely disrupt the dosing strategy and market landscape for maintenance medications. We’ve currently applied it to our depression treatment, but it has applications for blood pressure, contraception, lycanthropy… The possibilities are nearly limitless.”

“We understand that Boniface is the market leader in this technology,” Draco continued. 

Color rose on Afaire’s cheeks. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

“We found evidence that the assailant used delayed release capsule technology to lengthen the poison’s duration of action,” Hermione cut in. “We need to know who at Boniface has the materials and knowledge required to manufacture them.” 

The quick calculus behind Afaire’s eyes yielded acquiescence. “Our operations team,” she said, voice unsteady. “Manufacturing. They have everything—” 

Draco shook his head. “No, we’re looking for something small scale. A single batch that could have been produced without extensive, or any, documentation.” 

Afaire’s eyes widened. “Research and Development, then,” she replied. “The New Product and Innovation team.” 

“We need to interview them,” Hermione said, helping herself to a chair. “Please let us know when you’ve readied the conference room.” 

Afaire rose, visibly trying to capture what remained of her composure. “Ms. Granger, if you think I can disrupt the day’s schedule to indulge in this fishing expedition—”

“That’s exactly what I think you’ll do,” Hermione answered, folding her hands and leaning back in her chair. She felt Draco behind her, radiating tension as she played with her power. “The sooner we find what we need, the sooner we’ll leave. I recommend you get started.” 

Their eyes locked in a battle of wills; Afaire broke first.

“Very well. It will take some time.” 

“We’ll wait,” Hermione assured her. “And perhaps you can have your receptionist send in a tea tray.” 

Afaire bristled but nodded. She left the room in silence, and Hermione relaxed her shoulders the moment her office door clicked closed. 

“You’re full of surprises today,” Draco said. 

Hermione craned her head back to smile at him. “Take a seat, Draco. We have a long day ahead of us.”

* * *

Most of the employees Draco and Hermione interviewed throughout the morning had been unafraid. Intimidated, perhaps. Confused. But not actively frightened. 

That was not the case for Lei Xian. The woman’s bearing was all wrong: downcast eyes, wan skin, trembling hands as she pulled a glass of water across the table. Hermione and Draco exchanged a quick look, and then Hermione leaned forward. She had spoken plainly with the interviewees until now. Xian required a different approach. 

“How are you today, Ms. Xian?” 

The woman stared at her lap and whispered an answer Hermione didn’t catch. 

“Have you heard about what happened at the Ministry?” 

Another nod. 

“No one has died.” 

Xian lifted wide, dark eyes to Draco. Hermione sat back in her chair, content to let him lead for a moment. 

“It was close,” he continued gently, “but I expect them all to make a full recovery.” 

Xian dashed away her tears with a swipe of her palm, but there were too many to successfully quell. 

“Why did you make the mistletoe tea?” 

At last, her sob burst through. Xian buried her face in her hands, elbows braced upon the table. 

“They have my _son_.” The words were broken, disfigured by grief and guilt. “My _son_! I had to… I had…”

“Start from the beginning,” Hermione said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline racing through her. “How was your son taken?” 

Water spilled from the glass as Xian brought it to her lips, but the focused question seemed to work, providing enough guidance to prompt a clear answer. 

“He went on holiday in December, fishing in the north with some of his friends. The whole group was captured. They sent me a note.” She reached into her robe and withdrew a worn piece of parchment, folded and tear stained, worried over for weeks. Hermione took it and skimmed the sharp penmanship. 

As threats went, it was fairly routine. The abductors had her son and would kill him if she went to the authorities or failed to do what they asked. What made an icy hand close tight around her heart was the signatory. 

“Fenrir Greyback.” 

Another sob broke from Xian’s chest. “I didn’t want to hurt anybody,” she whispered, tears streaming. “They wanted me to kill everyone, but I couldn’t… I lowered the toxicity. I… I just want to save my son.” 

“We can help you,” Hermione said, “but you have to tell us everything. Who did you hand the tea off to?” 

She shook her head. “They’ll know.” 

“They won’t. We’ll keep this quiet.” 

“How? You’re going to drag me out of here in restraints. My coworkers will notice. Everyone will know.” Her face, splotched with color, suddenly paled. “I’ve killed him. Oh gods, _I’ve killed him_!” 

“Not yet.” Hermione watched, stunned, as Draco reached across the table and took Xian’s hand. “What’s your son’s name?” 

“Jason.” 

“And how old is Jason?” 

“Nineteen.” 

“Strong? Healthy?” 

Xian nodded, brow furrowed. “What does this—”

“Greyback’s not going to kill him,” Draco said. “He’s going to recruit him.” 

Hermione flinched, reaching below the table to place a warning hand on Draco’s thigh. He continued regardless. 

“Greyback only kills people who are of no use to him. Your son and his friends will only strengthen his pack.” 

“But… A werewolf?” There was no mistaking the fear in Xian’s voice. “He’d be a monster.” 

“No,” Draco said quickly. “Not a monster. A man, living with a treatable condition. An affliction that can be managed with a potion that uses the very technology you’ve helped develop.”

Her chin trembled as a new hope lit in her red-rimmed eyes. “I can still help him?” 

Hermione’s grip on Draco’s thigh tightened. They needed to tread carefully here. Xian was likely going to be sacked and prosecuted for her role in the poisoning. It wouldn’t help anyone for them to make empty promises. He seemed to get the hint. 

“You can help us rescue him, but we need the full story first. You made the tea, but you didn’t brew it. Is that right?” 

Xian took a bracing breath. “That’s right. I handed it off.” 

“To whom?” 

“I don’t know. I was instructed to leave the blend at a dead drop in Muggle London. St. James’s Square. I hid it beneath the base of the statue of William III.” 

Draco patted Xian’s hand then leaned in close to Hermione. The smell of peppermint tea was strong on his breath as he whispered, “Does the Ministry have surveillance in that area?” 

“No,” she whispered back, “but I’m sure the Muggles do. We can pull some strings with the Muggle Minister and gain access to the tapes.” 

Draco leaned away and looked back to Xian. “We’ll need the date and time of your visit,” he said. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?” Hermione prompted. 

Xian nodded, curling her fingers around the damp, stretched out sleeves of her robe. “Just that I’m sorry,” she said. “I never meant for it to go this far.” 

“We know,” Hermione said. “No one ever does.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The Muggle Liaison Office had worked its magic, delivering a stack of tapes a foot tall just as the sun sank behind the Ministry’s daylight-charmed windows. Hermione sighed, hefting them into her arms and slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder. She caught Draco’s eye from across the office.

They’d split up upon their return from Boniface Pharmaceuticals: Hermione to book Lei Xian into Ministry holding, Draco to receive patient updates from the expanded company of Junior Healers and perform his own rounds to verify their medical assessments. He held up a finger, and she propped her hip against her desk. 

Her normal impatience at being forced to wait was overcome by the sight of Draco working. Though she never would have expected it, Healing suited him. Draco could be aloof and cold, and he saw the world with an objectivity that cut like a scalpel. These characteristics made him difficult to know, but an effective diagnostician: someone who could be trusted to make the right decisions based on the available data. 

But Healing was about more than knowing the answer. It was about connection, humanity, and empathy. And, similar to how Hermione had felt the need to prove herself in the face of Muggle-born prejudice, Draco had a reason beyond pure ambition to do his job well. His success was a matter of pride. It was personal. Hermione not only understood the drive that kind of pressure inspired, she respected it. She admired his determination and saw in him a stubborn resolve that mirrored her own refusal to bend against tremendous odds. 

She liked that about him. Liked a lot about him, as it happened. 

Having completed his rounds, Draco handed off his clipboard and wound toward her through the makeshift ward. Hermione hadn’t realized she’d been smiling until he commented on it. 

“Good news?” he asked. 

“Yes and no.” She lifted the stack of tapes. “Yes: Arthur Weasley came through for us. No: I need to get through these tonight. As such, I’m heading home.”

“I’ll come with.” 

Hermione’s heart stuttered to a stop, waiting a painful moment before lurching back into a sprint. Draco hadn’t noticed; he was undoing the hooks of his Healer’s robe with decided nonchalance. 

“You don’t…” Hermione cleared her throat and tried again. “You don’t have to. It’s going to be a long night on my little television. Dull work, really, and I don’t expect—”

“It’s been a long day. A second pair of eyes might help.” 

She pressed her lips together, thinking of the mess in her flat. The embarrassingly empty refrigerator. The piles of paperwork littering her kitchen table. The hand-knit Gryffindor throw draped over the couch. Crookshanks, who’d grown increasingly ornery in his advanced age. 

“I’ll pick up dinner. Is pad thai okay?” 

She nodded, still not quite comprehending the abrupt turn her night had taken. 

“Great,” he said, a smile dancing in his grey eyes. “See you in a few.”

* * *

Draco stepped into Hermione’s modest living room, a pillar of cool tones against the warm palette of her personal space. She held her breath as he looked around, a plastic takeaway bag in one hand, a bottle of white wine in the other. She cleared her throat. 

“You didn’t have to—”

“You keep saying as much,” he said, only half joking. “I _wanted_ to.” 

He waited on her hearth, polite, his pure-blood manners acting as an anchor until she invited him in properly. She gestured him into the kitchen, hurrying ahead to grab a pair of wine glasses. Too late, she noticed they were mismatched. She suppressed a wince; he was probably used to cut crystal. 

However, if the accommodations were below Draco’s typical standard, he didn’t show it. He took his glass with a grateful smile and waved away porcelain plates and proper cutlery, content to eat from the takeaway container with the provided plastic utensils. Their meal passed in stilted silence, which eventually became more than Hermione could bear. 

“Any changes since I left?” 

“No. Everyone’s still stable with steadily improving vitals. How is Ms. Xian?” 

Hermione frowned. “Guilty. Grieving. She was given an impossible choice, but at least she’s trying to do the right thing now.” 

“Do you think it’s enough? To atone for the mistake she made?” 

The question was quiet but landed with the weight of a felled tree. Hermione’s throat tightened. She chose her answer carefully, well aware that they were discussing more than just the case. 

“I think it’s a start.” 

He paused for a moment, absorbing the answer, then nodded his agreement. Hermione felt a small wave of relief; perhaps he’d expected worse. 

“What’s the plan for tonight?” he asked. 

Hermione rose from the table, grateful for a change in subject. “I thought we’d start with the day Xian dropped off the tea. From there, we’ll watch until we see someone else use a similar spell. I have a copy of the Ministry’s employee directory from Human and Being Resources.” 

She canted her chin toward an enormous folder on her coffee table. Draco took a seat on her couch while she knelt before the tape player and inserted the first video. 

“Once we have a visual, it’s just a matter of applying the correct filters. We’ll sort through the photos until we have a decent suspect list and formulate our next steps from there.” 

She grabbed the remote and sat on the couch’s opposite end, fast-forwarding the video. Draco leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fascinated. 

“Is this the first time you’ve seen a television?” Hermione asked, somewhat surprised by the possibility. She took Harry and Ron’s familiarity with Muggle technology for granted. It hadn’t occurred to her that Draco might not know anything about the world she came from. The world he’d been taught to hate and fear. 

“No,” he said quickly, somewhat affronted. “I’ve seen them before. I just… How does it work?” 

Hermione breathed a laugh and handed him the remote, never happier to stumble through the history of motion pictures or butcher the science behind electricity. She didn’t have all the answers, but that didn’t matter: the conversation reminded her that there was always more to learn, if only one had the courage to be curious.

* * *

About halfway through the first tape, Xian appeared on screen. Draco slowed the footage to normal speed as the night vision camera painted the world in hues of black and green. They watched as Xian prodded the statue with her wand. A stone compartment slid from its base, into which she slipped a white envelope. She resealed the compartment and Disapparated with a twist. The drop took no more than two minutes.

It was a blip, but at least it was something. 

Every hour or so, Hermione rose to change the tape. Draco refilled their wine, and their casual conversation ebbed and flowed as the night crawled forward. Crookshanks, his curiosity eventually outweighing his less sociable instincts, joined them on the couch, deigning to rest his considerable bulk against Draco’s thigh and covering his undoubtedly expensive trousers in ginger fur. 

“Sorry,” she muttered, reaching for her cat. 

Draco just smiled and sunk a hand into the plush ruff of fur at Crookshanks’ neck, who blinked at her with a satisfied, borderline smug expression. 

Hermione rolled her eyes but settled back against the cushions, letting the pair be. She’d probably touched Draco’s leg enough for one day, anyway. Better to focus on the blurred video footage instead of the memory of his thigh beneath her fingers. 

Much better.

* * *

Hermione woke to the sight of Draco’s eyes. They shone dark silver in the false, blue-tinged light of the television screen, and were far nearer than she expected. 

“Hermione?” 

She inhaled sharply and sat up straight, grateful for the relative darkness that disguised the blush spreading across her cheeks. 

“Sorry,” she said. “How long was I out?” 

“A few hours.” 

“You should’ve woken me.” 

“You needed sleep. Besides, you didn’t miss anything until now.” 

He sat next to her. _Right_ next to her. His weight tilted the old couch cushions, drawing her closer until their thighs touched. He aimed the remote and pressed _Play_. 

The screen was once again awash in black and green; all nefarious activity seemed to happen at night. A heavyset man in a long coat approached the statue, a pronounced limp in his right leg. He was bald except for a ring of grey hair that circled his head like a monk’s tonsure. Hermione saw the faint outline of wire-rimmed glasses and the bristle of a moustache. 

Draco paused the video. “Look familiar?” 

“Not yet,” she seethed. 

The living room lights flicked on with a snap of Hermione’s fingers. With a pass of her wand, the thickness of the Ministry personnel folder reduced by half. All that remained were photos of the male employees. 

“How old would you estimate him?” 

Draco squinted at the footage. “Fifty, maybe?” 

The pile reduced further. 

“Glasses next,” Hermione muttered. 

“And then anyone with reported injuries to their lower extremities,” Draco suggested. “His limp might be on file as a medical work restriction.” 

The pool reduced significantly after that, and Hermione charmed the remaining headshots to circulate slowly around her living room. 

Almost immediately, Draco jumped up to pull a photo from the rotation. Hermione scrambled to join him, looking over his arm. 

“That’s him,” she said. The colors were different, but the haircut, glasses, and face shape were all the same. 

“Lyle Waterstone,” Draco said. “Department of Magical Transportation, Portkey Office. Another unwilling accomplice, or a member of Greyback’s pack?” 

“We won’t know until we talk to him.” Hermione made for the Floo, but stopped when Draco caught her wrist. 

“It’s three a.m.,” he said, reasonably. “No one but us knows what we have. Perhaps we can take a day to plan before rushing headlong into apprehension? Or at least wait until business hours,” he amended at Hermione’s frown. 

“Fine,” she conceded, “but we go first thing.” 

A grin quirked his lips. “Fair enough. Meet you at the Ministry at six?” 

“Wait, you’re… You’re leaving?” 

Draco paused on his way to the Floo. His gaze seared the air, the silent offer hanging between them. He showed no sign of moving until she vocalized it. 

“It’s three a.m.,” she said, trying for humor. “You can stay, if you’d like.” 

Slowly, he closed the distance between them. His hand cupped her cheek, and she felt like soaring as his lips brushed hers. Perhaps it was the late hour, the lack of sleep, or the juxtaposition of the light in her flat against the darkness pressing in against the windows, but the moment felt oddly removed from time, as feathered and fragile as a dream. 

“I think we’ll both sleep better in our own beds tonight.” 

Her breath hitched as his lips met hers again, a gentle and brief goodnight. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Hermione.” 

He disappeared in a _whoosh_ of green flame, and the apartment felt decidedly colder without him in it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Hermione waited in Lyle Waterstone’s empty cubicle, first leaning against his desk and then transitioning to his chair as the minutes ticked by. Apparently, the man made a habit of arriving late to work.

One more mark against him, as far as she was concerned, though tardiness was hardly his most egregious sin. 

Just after ten a.m., he sauntered off the lift. Perhaps Hermione imagined the swagger in his step and the smug expression on his face. He didn’t seem to notice the empty office, cleared courtesy of an _emergency meeting_ called by the department head at the Minister’s behest. Or if he did notice, he certainly didn’t care. 

Hermione took a deep breath and absently touched the wand sheathed against her forearm, the leather holster hidden in the wide sleeve of her robe. She rose to meet him. 

“Lyle Waterstone?” The first step was to establish positive identification. Her tone was sharp, all business with the breath of a threat. 

Waterstone’s expression flickered. His eyes dropped to her waist, registering the flash of her badge. 

“Yes. And you’re Hermione Granger,” he said, wary. “What can I help you with? Need a Portkey permit?” 

“No. I need to know where you were on the morning of Monday, January 5.” 

His eyebrows ticked up in surprise. He set his briefcase at his feet, moving with measured care. 

“Here,” he said. “I had an early morning meeting.” 

“Can anyone verify that?” 

He paused, perhaps aware of the trap closing around him. “Care to share what this is about?” 

Hermione let the anxiety build for a moment before letting the hammer fall. “What do you know about the mass poisoning event that occurred on Level 2?” 

Waterstone froze: a half second of perfect stillness as he performed the odds calculations. Hermione saw his decision and lurched sideways as he drew his wand. His jinx blasted through the desk behind her, exploding it with the sound of a cannon. 

Parchment fluttered around her, a snowfall of singed scraps that threatened to trigger the fire suppression system. Hermione whirled the smoke away, dispersing it and containing the chaos to Level 6, before she flung an Incarcerous at him. It went wide, knocked off course as his briefcase came sailing toward her. She caught it in the chest, staggering backwards and giving him enough time to run. She tossed the briefcase aside and sprinted after him. 

She needn’t have bothered. 

Draco stepped from the kitchenette and cast his Incarcerous with a violence that shook dust from the ceiling tiles. His mouth twisted into a snarl, conjuring unwelcome memories of the boy he’d been. But his disgust was not for her. 

He kicked Waterstone’s wand away and braced a foot on the man’s chest. Waterstone grinned up at him. Blood seeped from both his nostrils, twin streaks of red that dribbled across his lips and stained his teeth a gory pink. 

“ _Why_?” Draco growled. “Why did you do it?” 

Waterstone laughed, a high-pitched sound that sent a shiver crawling down Hermione’s spine. 

“You self-righteous prig,” Waterstone said, spitting a gob of blood at Draco’s shoes. “You think you’re a better man now, but we all know that you’ve simply traded masters. We know your true measure, _traitor_.”

“ _We_?” Hermione stood at Draco’s shoulder, wand trained on Waterstone’s chest. He turned shining eyes to her. 

“ _You know who_ ,” he said with a twisted smile. 

“Greyback,” Draco bit out between clenched teeth. 

“We were content to stay in the north, grow our pack, and live our lives in peace,” Waterstone growled. 

“Your _pack_ has been terrorizing the countryside,” Hermione said. “The disappearances, the kidnappings, the _killings_. Did you expect the Ministry just to ignore that?” 

“You started this war,” Waterstone continued. “Remember that, when the body count starts to climb.” His eyes shifted to Draco. “Every death from now on falls on your shoulders.” 

“We’re not killers,” Draco said. 

Waterstone chuckled. “Well, _she’s_ not.” 

With a sharp inhale, Draco’s drew back to cast. Hermione caught his arm before he could let it fly. 

“Draco.” His gaze flicked to hers. “First, do no harm.” 

After a long moment, his arm relaxed. Draco lowered his wand, stepped back, then turned away from her. She heard him leave, his rushed footsteps indicative of a man in crisis. But Hermione couldn’t follow him; she had a job to do. 

“Lyle Waterstone, you’re under arrest on charges of domestic terrorism. You have the right to remain silent.”

* * *

Hermione left Ministry processing and took the lift to Level 2 for the second time that week. She still wasn’t used to the uncanny silence of the office, the soft pings of heart rate cuffs and the gentle, even breaths of her unconscious coworkers. 

Draco waited for her, leaning against her desk with his arms crossed. 

The last vestiges of Level 9’s persistent cold faded as he reached for her. His hands were warm on her biceps, his eyes gentle. The fury she’d witnessed earlier had been put back into containment, the control she now associated with him firmly seated into place. 

“Are you okay?” 

She nodded. “Are you?” 

“Yes.” 

“That wasn’t the plan, you know.” His brows furrowed at the mild accusation. “I had him,” she explained. “You didn’t have to risk yourself for me. I’ve trained for this, and I’m fully capable of handling myself around a suspect.” 

“I know you are,” he said. “But just because you _can_ do something alone doesn’t mean that you have to.” 

All thoughts of furthering the argument disappeared when Draco dropped his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. “Thank you,” he said, his breath puffing against her chin. 

“For what?” 

“For stopping me. For reminding me.” 

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his robe. “You didn’t need me. You wouldn’t have done it.” 

A shuddering breath against her lips. “I’m not so sure.” 

“I am.” She brushed her lips against his. An invitation. An opportunity. 

An interruption. 

“Hermione?” 

The voice was hoarse, but she recognized it at once. She shoved herself away from Draco, putting a foot of space between them as she took in the sight of Harry Potter: scruffy, pale, and standing, his light blue patient’s robe fluttering around his knees. 

“Harry!” Hermione dashed forward and swept him into a fierce hug, her eyes stinging with tears. 

“What happened?” he asked, somewhat breathless as she let him go. 

“Fluids first, Potter.” Draco stepped between them, the warmth in his voice replaced by clinical professionalism. Confused, Harry nevertheless let himself be guided back through the office. He shot Hermione a questioning look. 

“Later,” Hermione promised him. “I’ll tell you everything later.”

* * *

By the day’s end, most Level 2 employees had regained consciousness. The story of the mistletoe tea, the perfidy of Lyle Waterstone, and the connection to Greyback’s pack spread like wildfire in dry brush. Though most preferred to call it justice, the need for vengeance was fierce. The Aurors looked to Harry for guidance, and he looked to Hermione, who stood strong beneath the weight of their expectations. 

“We’ll pull a team together,” she told Robards. The department Head hadn’t left his office since waking, much to the displeasure of his wife. “Greyback said there was a war coming,” Hermione continued. “We need to stop it before it escalates further.” 

“He dismantled MLE for half a week. I’d say it’s escalated plenty,” Robards groused. “Are you ready for this, Granger?”

She squared her shoulders. Hermione was a full year of experience behind Harry and Ron, who had chosen Auror training over an eighth year at Hogwarts. This was her chance to prove herself. To show the department, and all those still skeptical of her place in the wizarding world, what she could achieve. 

Besides, she wouldn’t be doing it alone. Harry and Ron stood with her, stalwart companions who trusted her judgment and knew the depths of her commitment. And though he wasn’t in the room, she had Draco now, too: a serious, canny ally who made her feel invincible. 

“Yes,” she answered, “I am.” 

With those three in her corner, how could she not be?

**The End**


End file.
